Wendy Said Yes!
by William Easley
Summary: Not part of my usual continuity, this one was written for Wendip Week 2018 on the prompt "Date Night." Dipper gets up the nerve to ask Wendy to go on a date-and when she consents, he, well, he starts being Dipper.


**Wendy Said Yes!**

 **(This is not part of my usual continuity, but was written for Wendip Week 2018 following the prompt "Date Night")**

* * *

 **An entry from the Journals of Dipper Pines, written in the summer of 2015:**

 _Wednesday evening_ : Oh, my gosh! I'm hyperventilating. Mabel is out on the roof shooting off fireworks. She won a bet from Grunkle Stan that she could persuade me to ask Wendy out on a real date.

And she did.

 _And I did._

Wendy said yes!

Oh, my gosh.

Saturday night. This is Wednesday, nearly ten PM. The rest of tonight, and then two more nights from now. There's a dance at the teen center. We're going to The Club for dinner first. I've saved up all the money I've made at the Shack so far this summer, and I think there's enough for a meal there, plus a tip, plus the tickets to the dance. Then I'll be broke, but still—

Oh, my gosh.

My clothes! I've got to have some good clothes! Grunkle Stan says a sports jacket, tie, and good shoes, and I don't have any of those! Or a shirt I could wear with a tie! But when he told me that just after Wendy went home, I explained my problem, not having enough money to buy all that and pay for the date, too, and he said not to worry, to see me in decent clothes for once, he'll buy me the outfit, including the sports jacket. Mabel told me she'd pick out the styles and colors. But Melody gently said she'd do that instead. She's shopping online for the local mall stores that sell such gear.

Maybe this time, without Mabel's help, I mean, I'll look like, you know, a normal teen boy instead of an apprentice circus clown. Mabel has a certain taste in clothing, but—she's Mabel!

I told Melody I'd appreciate her help, and my sister got grumpy, but I conceded her one point. She gets to design and hand-paint a tie, which she'll do tomorrow. She's thinking a pictorial representation of Bipper, because she said when Bill Cipher possessed my body he made me look like a hot bad boy, but I'm going to veto that idea. I'll probably still wind up with yellow triangles on an ugly purple tie, but—

But that's not the least of my worries. Between tonight and Saturday evening, I have to learn how to dance! I _can't_ just do the Lamby Lamby dance! I don't care if Wendy thinks it's cute, the other people would stare at me and I think I'd die right there on the dance floor.

Mabel says she'll teach me four basic steps for contemporary fast dances, and Melody has offered to teach me how to waltz and fox-trot, which she says will do for any slow dances, and with those six different steps, I can fake my way through fast or slow dances.

Slow dances! I'd have my arms around Wendy! Oh, my gosh.

I mean, I'm fifteen years old! And Wendy's eighteen and everybody at the dance is going to be staring at us already and laughing behind our backs and talking about us because she's so cool and I'm so _not_ , and she's tall and I'm not so tall, and I'm sure she's a great dancer, and I'm so—so lame.

Maybe I'd better just call it off.

No, I can't do that. I'd hate myself forever.

But if I screw everything up, I'll hate myself even more and I'll probably—

Maybe I can jump into he Bottomless Pit over and over until I stop coming out again, I don't know. Because I know me. Somehow I'm bound to screw it up. And even if Wendy forgave me, I couldn't forgive me. Ack, I can't breathe.

But no matter how it turns out—oh, my gosh!

How did it even happen?

This afternoon, I got my nerve up and went right up to Wendy. I leaned casually on the counter and said right out loud, "Since we've been through so many things, Wendy, I was thinking maybe we could go out. Not seriously. But together. Just, uh, just for one time. I mean, just as friends. To, um, the dance on Saturday. But you have a date already, probably, so, bad idea, sorry, my bad—"

"No, I don't," she said, not looking up from her _Teen Fuzz_ magazine (she was behind the counter in the gift shop, leaning back in her chair, her long beautiful legs propped up on the counter). "I'm between boyfriends, dude. And I got nothing else to do Saturday night, so yeah, I guess."

I couldn't believe my ears. I mean, I literally didn't believe she said what she said. "Oh, well, maybe next time," I heard myself say.

With a little irritable line between her eyebrows, but still not looking at me, Wendy said, "Dude, you got something in your ears? I said I'd go to the dance."

I stood there opening and closing my mouth, and then I said, "Wendy, I just want to be, you know, clear on this, OK? I asked you to go to the dance Saturday night, and you said, um—what did you say?"

She glanced at me with a kind of exasperated grin. "I said _yes_ , dork! We'll go as friends, like you said. Might be fun."

"Uh, and dinner first?" I asked. My voice started squeaking. I thought it had stopped doing that when I was thirteen. I cleared my throat. "Um, dinner first? At The Club?"

"Ooh, fancy," Wendy said, arching her eyebrows, her beautiful green eyes twinkling. "Yeah, sounds good. You got a car, man?"

I wilted. She _knows_ I don't. There it was, right there, the deal-breaker. She told me she might date me when I'm old enough to drive. Feeling the rejection coming, I mumbled, "No, I—Wendy, you know I don't. I just have my learner's permit. I couldn't drive a car if I had one."

She gave me a sympathetic sort of smile. "Hey, don't look like I just hit you with my axe. I was teasing. No sweat, man. It's OK, I'll drive."

I still couldn't get my head around what was happening. "Um. OK. In other words—we have—we—you and me, I mean—I want to make sure, now—you're saying that—"

She put down the magazine. I couldn't tell if she was mad or just wanted to end the conversation. "I'm saying it's a date, man! Haven't you ever dated a girl before?"

I couldn't talk. I couldn't even look at her. I stared at my toes. A big lump throbbed in my throat. I kept telling myself, _Don't start crying!_ But I felt like that time in fourth grade when I didn't get a single Valentine card. How could I tell her what a failure I've been with girls?

But I think she understood. In a gentle voice, she said, "Oh, Dipper. I'm so sorry, dude! I wasn't being mean, I just didn't _know_. I mean, you're fifteen, I thought—OK, relax. This is your first time, that's cool. Everybody has one. It's all right, man. We're gonna have a friendly date, and it's gonna be fun. And really, I don't mind driving."

"Thank you," I finally said. I know my voice sounded small and humble, but that's exactly the way I felt.

Grunkle Stan and Mabel were hiding in the Museum, eavesdropping from out of sight behind the doorway. "That's five bucks you owe me!" I heard Mabel yell. "Plus another twenty 'cause she said yes!"

"Jeeze Louise," Grunkle Stan grumbled. "That's steep! How's about the five in cash and the rest in fireworks?"

"It's a deal! Put your skyrockets where your mouth is!"

And that's why right now, a few hours after all that, Mabel's shooting off rockets outside. I can see their red and green and gold flashes coming through the triangular window. I can hear the shrieks and booms.

But they don't seem festive to me because now I realize I've really landed myself in trouble.

I've got two days to learn how to do something besides the Lamby Lamby dance. I hope I'm not too clumsy. Mabel swears she and Melody will whip me into shape. If I don't step all over my own stupid feet. Or Wendy's! Oh, man.

Grunkle Stan's taking me to the mall to buy the clothes Melody suggested for me tomorrow. I've hardly ever worn a suit and tie, just for my Bar Mitzvah that Gramma insisted on my having and then another time, well, sort of, when I played Mr. Mystery, and that one time when Bill Cipher got my body into the Reverend's costume for Mabel's puppet play.

But in a sports jacket and white shirt and regular black leather shoes, plus whatever ugly tie Mabel whips up, I'll look like such a dork.

And before Saturday, I have to look at The Club's menu online and plan out what I can order and stay within my budget. I'll assume Wendy will want a high-priced meal, so I'll look for something cheaper for me to balance hers out. Oh and I'll have to find out online how to pronounce the names of any French dishes. Or I guess I could just point at the menu. But I don't want to have to do that, because Wendy might laugh at me—

Oh, my gosh.

What have I got myself into?

Oh, my gosh!

* * *

 _Late Saturday night:_

I haven't written anything since Wednesday. Now it's late.

I'm back from the date.

It was—I don't know! Wendy was—I don't _remember_ , except she's beautiful! My dancing—I can't even recall it, except she felt so warm in my arms! I don't think I stepped on her toes. I can't _remember!_

My mind's a blank.

Because Wendy just dropped me off outside the Shack.

She smiled under the porch light and said, "I had a good time, Dip. Let's do this again."

I _think_ I squeaked "Sure!"

But I don't remember! Not _anything_ before the next moment!

Because then Wendy grabbed my jacket and pulled me close against her, and—

Oh, my gosh, oh my gosh, oh my gosh!

 _WENDY KISSED ME!_

* * *

The End


End file.
